They’re Not Heavy
by Hans the bold
Summary: Lucy discovers a new and special love for Matt. No, it’s not what you think. Get your mind out of the gutter.
1. Part One

Brenda Hampton and other Hollywood bigwigs own these characters. Just so you know I know it.  
  
You should always be careful what you say, especially on the 7th Heaven boards at Television Without Pity (http://www.televisionwithoutpity.com/). You see, 7th Spud challenged the TWoP writers to write an account of Matt's wedding night, an idea I at first balked at, because quite frankly the idea of Matt and sex together is something I find pretty darn icky. But then Grace W. was kind enough to remind me that I am by my own admission a writer who likes a challenge, and that I tend to tackle projects I'm not sure I can carry off. Hence the following little tale, which deals with both Matt's wedding night and my strong impression that Matt Camden is hiding something sexual that he is terribly ashamed of, and which accounts, at least in part, for his years of rude and prudish behavior on the show. And since Grace W. nudged me into putting aside my other work to pen this story, it is to her that it is affectionately dedicated.  
  
  
  
PART ONE  
  
* * *  
  
I don't know what to think anymore. It doesn't make sense. It isn't him, not like him, at all.  
  
But I cannot deny what I saw.  
  
No.  
  
They're married now, the two of them, after the big wedding that wasn't supposed to be big, and Mary and Ruthie and I stood there as Maids of Honor, and Simon and Robbie as Groomsmen. Mom was in her best dress with Mrs. Glass in hers, and Dad and Rabbi Glass each performed the ceremony. There were hijinks, of course, because there always are. It's part of our family, part of being a Camden.  
  
But not this. Not this image in my head that won't go away.  
  
We sent them off, on to their wedding night, their honeymoon, and afterward Mom cried and Dad cried and Mary and I looked around and wondered when it would be us in the beautiful white gowns, when it would be our fingers that would wear the gemette wedding rings.  
  
Ruthie told us we were idiots. She had this smirk on her face, like she knew something, but we couldn't chase her in our high heels and so we never managed to get her to tell us what it was. After the wedding we all drove home and parked and went in and changed out of our nice clothes.  
  
It was quiet for a long time. We ate a light dinner and went to bed early. Mary had to be back at the JetBlue office the next day and I had classes to attend.  
  
Maybe I should have suspected something earlier. Maybe I should have noticed that they were missing.  
  
Because they were. I look back on it now and it all seems so clear. I had ten pairs, and now there were only seven.  
  
Maybe they were in the wash.  
  
#  
  
Matt and Sarah returned from their honeymoon at Niagara Falls in New York, and we welcomed them into our house. It was crowded, and I wondered as I watched them kissing in the hall, in the bathroom, in the living room, why they didn't just move in with her parents where they would have a little more privacy. It was worse when Mary came to visit, because she would crowd up the room with Ruthie and me and I couldn't study with them there.  
  
The only place it was quiet was the garage apartment.  
  
It wasn't finished yet; there was still wiring and drywalling to be done and the tub and toilet had to be installed. Mom kept talking about it, about having it there for Matt and Sarah when they came back from school on holidays. And Mary would come back a lot too, since JetBlue was going to be flying into Glenoak International Airport soon and we wouldn't have to drive up to Sacramento to get her every time she came in.  
  
For several weeks Matt and Sarah stayed with us. There were more hijinks. Simon's friend Morris was around a lot. He was cute, but he never seemed interested in looking at me.  
  
I was in the living room watching TV when Sarah came and sat down.  
  
"Hi, Lucy. Do you have a moment?"  
  
I shut off the television. I had an assignment due soon on comparative theology and I wanted to ask her about being a Jew, so this was perfect. That's the way it always works in my family; the same things happen to all of us at the same time.  
  
"Sure," I said.  
  
She sat.  
  
She blushed.  
  
"What is it?" I asked. I knew I had to learn to talk to people, since someday I'm going to become a Minister.  
  
"Is Matt all right?" she asked at last.  
  
I shrugged. "What do you mean?"  
  
She watched me for a moment. I watched her back. I think that's the way Dad does it.  
  
"Lucy," she began. Her voice was serious. Instinctively I looked behind the couch for Ruthie.  
  
"Lucy, I need to know if Matt is all right."  
  
"Sure he is," I said.  
  
Her eyes darted around; they did that a lot when she was in our house.  
  
"Listen to me, Lucy. I need you to swear you won't tell anyone what I'm going to tell you, all right? Can I trust you?"  
  
I looked again for Ruthie. I didn't see her, but that didn't matter. She was around somewhere. I know how things are in my home.  
  
"Let's go for a drive," I suggested.  
  
Sarah nodded.  
  
#  
  
In the car she relaxed a bit. I backed us out of the driveway and we drove to the park near our house, and I pulled up to the curb and stopped the car. I turned to her.  
  
"What is it?" I asked.  
  
She watched me warily.  
  
"Can I trust you?" she asked. "You won't repeat any of this?"  
  
"I swear," I told her. Swearing will be an important part of my job when I become a Minister.  
  
She nodded then.  
  
"All right," she said. "I'm worried about Matt."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Before he met me, had he ever ...."  
  
I watched her quizzically.  
  
"Adult relations," she said finally. "Sex. Had he ever had sex before he met me?"  
  
I laughed. I shouldn't have, but I couldn't help it.  
  
"Matt? Sex?"  
  
She blushed, looked uncomfortable.  
  
"I'm sorry," I said.  
  
She looked at me. Her face was drawn.  
  
"Matt never even thought about having sex," I told her. "He spent all his time turning down girls. There was Cheryl, for example. He dumped her because she wanted sex. And he was always making sure that Mary and I never had a chance to have sex, either. Once he nearly beat up my boyfriend. He was the one who went up to Sasha's window to make sure Simon wasn't having sex."  
  
Sarah looked scared.  
  
"Did he ever .... talk to you about sex?"  
  
I shook my head. "Well, there was that one time he videotaped it."  
  
Her eyes went wide. "What?"  
  
"Oh, not sex. No. I've never had sex. Never. I can't have sex before I'm married, you know. I'm going to be a Minister. No. He had a class project, and he wanted to videotape Mom and Dad talking to me and Mary about sex."  
  
She went pale.  
  
"I see."  
  
That was all she said for a while. I thought about turning on the radio, maybe listening to some music. Then she lowered her brow into her hand, sighed heavily.  
  
I should ask her what's wrong. That's what a Minister would do.  
  
She turned to me.  
  
"I'm worried about him," she said.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"He's ... strange, a little bit."  
  
"What do you mean?" I asked.  
  
"Swear you won't tell, Lucy. This is important to me."  
  
I nodded. This was good Minister practice.  
  
She looked out the window as she spoke.  
  
"On our wedding night ... he was strange. He kept wanting to touch my ...."  
  
I listened.  
  
She shook her head, looked back at me. "I mean, on our wedding night. In the hotel, after the ceremony."  
  
"What other wedding night is there?" I asked.  
  
She still looked uncomfortable.  
  
"I was wearing one of those white corsets, and stockings. The kind you see in the bridal magazines."  
  
I nodded. I had looked at Matt's copy. I figured he didn't need it anymore.  
  
"He didn't want me to take them off. When we .... And then ...."  
  
I wished that I had asked Mom and Dad about white corsets and stockings when they were telling me about sex, because I wasn't sure what Sarah was talking about now. Of course, maybe they had said something and I had missed it; I'd have to check the tape.  
  
Sarah had gone silent. She looked away again, rubbed her brow.  
  
"I need to know, Lucy. Is there something wrong with Matt?"  
  
I shook my head.  
  
"Of course not. He's a great guy. You're lucky he found you."  
  
She didn't look so sure. I figured it was something about being Jewish that Matt had gotten wrong. There were probably hijinks involved.  
  
#  
  
I wish now that that was all it was. I think I'm the only one who knows. What am I going to do?  
  
Morris came over a few days later. He was going to have dinner with us. It was crowded in the house, and Mom was showing Sarah how to make some of Matt's favorite dishes, since she would be cooking for him when they got to New York. I was trying to study in the living room when Simon and Morris came in; they were playing some sort of thumb wrestling game and were laughing and giggling a lot. I took my books up to my room, but Ruthie was there and she just sat and stared at me.  
  
"What do you want?" I asked.  
  
She smiled. "Nothing."  
  
"So why are you staring?"  
  
"To see how long it takes to make you uncomfortable."  
  
"I have a test tomorrow. Stop it."  
  
"Okay."  
  
She kept staring.  
  
"I thought you were going to stop."  
  
"I don't know. Are you uncomfortable yet?"  
  
I threw down my pen.  
  
"Yes! I'm uncomfortable! Will you stop now?"  
  
She smiled again.  
  
"No."  
  
I groaned, picked up my books and stormed out.  
  
#  
  
The kitchen was still Mom and Sarah, and Dad was writing his sermon in his office, and Simon and Morris were elbow wrestling or something in the living room. I paced through the house, groaned again, and headed out to the garage. I hated this ethics class anyway, but it was a requirement for the pre-seminary program, and I hadn't done too well on the last test in there. If people would just get along with each other, we wouldn't need any stupid ethics classes.  
  
I climbed the stairs to the door of the apartment. It had used to squeak when it opened; this had bothered me a week or two ago, so I had oiled the hinges, and now it was as quiet as a church mouse. Gently I pushed it back.  
  
It came open easily, and I stuck my head through, climbed in.  
  
And I saw.  
  
God, I wish I hadn't.  
  
Matt was there. He saw me as I saw him. He went red and jumped away; I dropped my books, heard them fall to the floor of the garage below.  
  
I wanted to cry out, say something, but I couldn't. His jaw dropped too, and he tried to hide himself, but there was still no drywall up so there was nowhere he could go.  
  
"Matt?" I managed at last.  
  
He was naked, or nearly naked. All he had on were a pair of my panties. I knew them immediately; they were my pink bikini satin ones, with the lace and little bows on the front.  
  
But there was a lot more than lace and bows in the front of them now.  
  
"Don't look at me!" he yelled.  
  
But I couldn't not look. There he was, in his long hair, his broad chest, his lean legs.  
  
And in my panties.  
  
"What are you doing in my underwear?" I managed at last.  
  
"Get out!" he screamed, and he lunged toward me.  
  
I ran, the door to the apartment slamming behind me. 


	2. Part Two

PART TWO  
  
* * *  
  
What am I going to do? It's all so clear now; it makes such sense. His obsession with long hair, my missing undies, what Sarah said. And as I think back now, I wonder how many times he was in my room, in my underwear drawer, touching things. I know he's always loved to snoop.  
  
I'm running everything in there through the wash.  
  
With a lot of bleach.  
  
Twice.  
  
I do this. Mom comes in.  
  
"Doing some laundry?" she asks.  
  
I nod. Do I tell her?  
  
I remember her before the hormones and I shudder.  
  
No. She would kill him.  
  
"Just a few things," I say to her.  
  
She adds some of the twins' clothes, steps back out.  
  
Maybe I can go to Dad. He's a Minister. He won't be judgmental.  
  
Somehow I know better than this.  
  
#  
  
Matt comes in later. He looks at me, his eyes dark, and I turn my gaze away. We have dinner, and Sarah sits beside him; I know that under the table she is touching his thigh. Dad talks about something going on at the church, and Simon and Morris punch each other playfully on the shoulder until Mom tells them to stop.  
  
Matt doesn't eat much.  
  
"Come on," Mom says. "It's your favorite. Sarah made it."  
  
He shakes his head. "I'm not hungry."  
  
I see Sarah look down. Does she know what I know? Who really wore the corset on their wedding night?  
  
Finally the meal ends. I go back out into the garage to get my books off the floor. As I turn to go back to the house he is there.  
  
"You didn't see anything," he says.  
  
"What?"  
  
"This afternoon. You didn't see anything. Do you understand?"  
  
"Matt, you need help --"  
  
"Leave me alone. In a few months Sarah and I will be gone. You can keep quiet. I'll pay you, Luce."  
  
"Does Sarah know?" I ask.  
  
He says nothing, only turns and walks away. His shoulders are slumped, like there is some big weight on them now.  
  
As I watch him I think. I remember. He was always the perfect older brother. He was always the one who looked out for me, who worried more about me than he did about himself. Yes, he was nosy, and rude, and things didn't always work the way he thought they should.. But he was always there. I suppose that in the end this was what mattered most; he was going to help me, whether I wanted him to or not.  
  
And I realize it then. I have to help him.  
  
#  
  
There's a crisis center at Crawford College. I shouldn't go there; chances are that someone will see me there and tell Dad, and then Dad will want to know what is going on. I think about this as I approach the door.  
  
All right. If it gets out, I'll just tell Dad and then Mom that I have an eating disorder. That's better than the truth. Anything's better than this truth in my family.  
  
"I need help," I tell the receptionist. He's a younger man, but he isn't cute. I wonder suddenly why that always seems so important to me.  
  
After a while they show me to a small room, with a desk and two chairs in it. I sit, quietly, until the counselor comes in. She's older; she sits down and laces her fingers together as she looks at me.  
  
"Lucy Camden, yes?"  
  
I nod.  
  
"What's troubling you, Lucy?"  
  
I watch her nervously. Who will she tell? Someone always tells someone; that's the way it is. Usually this results in hijinks.  
  
Will there be hijinks when Mom and Dad find out that Matt has been wearing my underwear?  
  
"It isn't about me. But you have to promise not to tell."  
  
I can tell she doesn't believe me.  
  
"Everything you say here remains confidential, Lucy."  
  
I nod.  
  
"It's my brother."  
  
I tell her the story, and she watches me, nodding from time to time. When I have finished she puts her elbows on the desk and leans a bit towards me.  
  
"From what you have told me, Lucy, I'd say your brother is a transvestite."  
  
I hear myself groan.  
  
"Oh, God, that's sick. You mean he's gay? Can you cure him? Maybe we can have an intervention."  
  
She smiles. It's a nice smile.  
  
"Lucy, he's probably not gay; most transvestites are heterosexuals. It sounds like he has a fetish, which means that he has a strong erotic pull towards an object. Women's undergarments are common fetish items."  
  
I cringe. Matt, she is saying, is a pervert. But no Camden is that way; we are all straight and moral and good. Mom and Dad raised us right.  
  
"But you can fix it, right? You can give him some counseling and some therapy and he'll want to be a man again."  
  
"He's a man right now," she says. "He doesn't sound like a transsexual, or a homosexual. He has a fetish for women's underwear. Unless he or your sister-in-law feel a need to address it, therapy would be useless."  
  
I hear my voice, weak.  
  
"Useless?"  
  
"Lucy, listen to me. You have every right to be angry with your brother. He violated your trust and stole from you. But a fetish is a powerful thing. You can't expect to make him what you want him to be. And transvestitism is in and of itself quite harmless. My best advice to you is to accept your brother for who he is. Tell him you love him and that this doesn't matter. Make it clear that he is to respect your things. But if you stigmatize him, it will only hurt him. If he wants help in dealing with these feelings, encourage him to get it. But in the end, that's all you can do."  
  
#  
  
All you can do.  
  
But that isn't enough, you see.  
  
Because I saw his pain, there in the garage. I saw it in the apartment, when he was kneeling in my panties, just in that first instant, burning with arousal. Through the shock and betrayal I felt it was still there. He knows what I know. He is a Camden, and people always expect impossible things from a Camden. He has to be perfect for Mom and Dad, for the Colonel and Ruth, for Grandpa. He cannot be himself, my brother. He cannot have feelings of his own because he is a Camden. I do not understand his need, do not understand why something that to me is functional and everyday could have such power over him. But I do understand his pain. I too am a Camden.  
  
As the day passes, I know that he will carry this with him always. So will I, now.  
  
I return home.  
  
He is there. In time I get him so we are by ourselves.  
  
"Matt," I say to him.  
  
"Leave me alone," he says.  
  
"We have to talk."  
  
"No."  
  
"Matt, I won't tell. I promise."  
  
His face softens. He seems smaller now than he used to be.  
  
"You think I'm sick," he accuses. "You think I'm going to go to hell."  
  
I shake my head. I wonder if the motion looks sincere.  
  
"You want me to tell Dad," he then adds. "But I know him, how he is. He wouldn't understand. None of you understand."  
  
"Does Sarah?" I ask.  
  
He looks down, shrugs. "I haven't told her, Luce. I think she thinks I'm weird already. And I am."  
  
"Are you going to tell her?"  
  
He shrugs again.  
  
"Matt, you have to. Someday she is going to figure it all out. Someday she is going to walk in on you like I did."  
  
"No. I'll be more careful."  
  
I watch him. I think, I hope, that he knows better than to believe that. He turns to go.  
  
"There's one more thing, Matt," I say.  
  
He looks at me. "What?"  
  
"I want my underwear back. And I want you to swear to God that you will never take my underwear again, and swear that you will never take Mom's or Mary's or Ruthie's. I mean it."  
  
He nods. "I'm so sorry, Luce. I just .... I'm afraid ...."  
  
"Swear it."  
  
A pause. He sighs. I can hear the pain in his sigh.  
  
"I swear, Luce."  
  
A moment later Mom and Dad and Sarah return. Tonight we will have dinner at the Glass's. I hurry upstairs to shower and change.  
  
#  
  
I find that my three pairs of missing panties have been discretely slipped into the next load of laundry. I can't wear them again; instead I take them and deposit them at the Goodwill office near our church. As I do I cannot help but think of Matt, of my brother, and of myself.  
  
I am different now. This is more than Matt. It is me, what I think, what I feel. All my life I have been taught that right and wrong are simple things, easily discerned. All my life I have knelt before God and prayed for answers, and the answers have come simply, in black and white.  
  
But no more. Matt has changed this. With his fetish, with his pain, with his shame and his fear, he has made me see that not all the answers are simple, that the Bible is only a guide, not a rulebook. Answers are a kaleidoscope of colors and grays, and they do not always come easily.  
  
I think about the Ministry. What Matt does, what he feels, some call a sin. I know that Dad would call it such, as would the Colonel. I know that in Deuteronomy 22:5 it is called an abomination.  
  
But I cannot accept this.  
  
I will not. I will not accept a God or a father who tell me that I am to hate my brother for something as innocent as this. I will not accept that there is only one way to be a man, or a woman.  
  
I will not sit idly by.  
  
#  
  
Matt keeps his promise; I have been arranging my underwear drawer so I always know what is where; I will know if it is disturbed. I am aware that this is unnecessary; however foolish Matt may be, he is a man of his word. But I know as well what his promise costs him.  
  
It is in his eyes, in how he passes by the hamper, by the clean wash as Mom innocently lays it out to be collected. I know he sees these things and that he wants them, that he needs them, that it is only his word that keeps him from touching, from feeling, from surrendering to the desire he cannot control.  
  
I ask him, from time to time, how he is. Things are busy now; he and Sarah are preparing to leave for school. His answers are always short and I can sense the agony behind them.  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
I have sat in the back carrels of the library and read what I can about men who wear women's clothes. I have seen Matt in these books, in these pained accounts of men who in fact love women perhaps too much, who we are all told to point at with shame, who in fact do no harm. And as I read I see, more and more, what I must do.  
  
#  
  
We meet in the unfinished garage apartment. He is nervous here and looks down at me as I lock the door. Back in the house he and Sarah have been packing a few last things to be shipped; tomorrow they will board a plane and fly off to medical school.  
  
"I have something for you," I tell him. "Because you kept your word to me."  
  
He watches me. I present him with a box in a brown paper bag.  
  
"Open it," I tell him.  
  
He does. The brown paper rattles in the quiet of the unfinished room.  
  
It is a small box; white and unremarkable. I watch him as he pulls back the lid.  
  
They are the same style as the ones he took from me; feminine, satin, with lace and bows. Three pairs. New. They will fit him; I took his waist size from a pair of his briefs in the hamper. His voice breaks as he speaks.  
  
"Luce --"  
  
I watch him as he trembles, as he reaches with a tentative finger and touches the soft satin.  
  
"I can't completely understand this," I tell him. "I don't suppose I ever will. But I don't think that matters. I still love you."  
  
The panties are soft and nearly sheer in his hand. They're not heavy.  
  
He's my brother.  
  
THE END 


End file.
